


Youth

by Hambone



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drabble, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tears, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request from Tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youth

“Ratchet? Are you in here?”

They both knew he knew perfectly well Ratchet was indeed in the makeshift med bay, but it was courteous of him to have called out anyways. It gave him a few moments to collect himself.

“Yeah? What?”

His voice was admirably calm, but he didn’t turn to face Optimus, continuing to fiddle with his tools as though he had reason to. Moving in a little closer but not daring to come right up, the Prime sat awkwardly on one of the berths, looking down at his hands.

“Sentinel called back. There’s a Guard ship in orbit just a few planets out, apparently; they’ll be here to take us back tomorrow morning.”

“Hn.”

There was silence for a moment, punctured only by Ratchet’s clicks and clanks and the creaking of the berth as Optimus shifted restlessly.

“It’s a good thing. The early return,” he mumbled, turning one hand over the other, “we can out everything and, and e-everyone in the right place.”

The berth at the far end of the room, surrounded completely by curtains, pressed heavily into his peripheral vision.

“I know, kid,” Ratchet said. Or at least, it was what he meant to say. Instead he made a soft choking sound, knees nearly giving out, and he grasped the tool sheet hard to keep himself steady but Optimus was already at his side, reaching under his shoulder to hold him up with the authoritative strength of a true hero.

“I’m fine!” he snapped, shaking his head, but in doing so he dislodged the streams of oily tears that had been crawling down his chin to splatter across the table.

“No, you’re not,” said Optimus, dragging him back to sit them both down on the berth. His arm remained wrapped around Ratchet’s shoulders, and for that he want thankful, because he had been crying for the better part of the night and he was still dizzy and reeling.

“How would you know,” he muttered, bitter for being caught out but allowing himself to lean on Optimus’s shoulder all the same.

“Because none of us are.”

He shuddered, looking at the floor. Optimus was too young to be comforting him like this, as if he were the young, cherry red medical intern he once was, getting his first taste of real energon on the field. He could feel the tender fear in the Prime’s fingers as they steadied his swaying and knew he was just as scared and was ashamed for it.

“You know,” Optimus said, almost a whisper, “you couldn’t have saved him. No one could have. He did it by choice.”

“You know,” Ratchet gasped, “when the old war was over, I thought that I would never end. I thought bots would be fighting what had happened to them forever, even after the rest of it, that nasty, stupid business, had ended.”

Optimus’s throat was tight, trying not to look over at the covered berth where Prowl lay. Ratchet’s fingers were digging into his own thighs, and he watched them tremble as he listened.

“But things changed. They really did, and not always for the better, and I guess not for the worse either, but they did. And then bots started to forget.”

He sniffed.

“There were a lot of mixed feelings about that, people saying it was too soon and all. I think it was always better they did, though. There was nothing, nothing we benefitted from remembering there. It was all just…”

He stopped, breathing deep. Optimus wanted to say something, but knew that no matter what they had faced together, no matter how hard it had been, he would never truly understand what had come before, so he didn’t. Ratchet turned, suddenly, and looked him right in the optic. His face was greasy and grey with tears, and he took Optimus’s unoccupied hand into his own rough and dented fingers. He was shaking.

“We didn’t fight so hard so this could happen,” he said, very quietly.

Optimus didn’t know what to do, so he just squeezed his arm around him and watched as the oldest and strongest bot he knew bowed his helm and cried.


End file.
